Carried on the Wind
by BleedingTwilight
Summary: The healer and the personal guard of an Irish chieftain are being hunted, but what will become of them after meeting Arthur and his knights? Will they be handed over to those who they have been trying to escape from?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize.**

AN: Instead of diving right into a sequel to my other story, I chose to post this one which I actually began before writing Reluctant Thieves. I was going to take a nice long break from writing, but I couldn't stay away so I decided to post this one. I really hope that you like it, and please tell me what you think!

Carried on the Wind

The frail figure sat beside the glowing fire swaddled in several layers of blankets. Still the tiny body shivered with fever. She wouldn't be the first of the village to die from such an ailment. Her once bright and innocent eyes were now sunken and dull. Her long flowing ginger hair was now matted to her head with sweat. Her once fit figure was now weak and frail from weeks of illness.

The tribe's healer gave her no more than a couple days left on this plane, yet still she clung to every breath hoping that it would not be her last. Too weak to even stand on her own, she now waited for her brother to come back to their hut, so she could be led to her bed once again.

Winter was not even upon the tribe in the deep forests of Ireland, but disease had already begun to sweep through with its icy hand which held only death for those it touched. Bodies had to be burned instead of buried for fear of spreading the terrible plight. No one was safe young, old, man, woman, or even child.

It did, however, prey hardest upon the already weak. Lyra had been a sickly child since the day that she was dragged into this world, but by the grace of the gods she still held onto her weak pulse. This disease, however, was far more than her already failing body could take and she now lay upon her cot of furs watching the spirits of those gone before her, dance around her head.

It was because of this plague that the normally nomadic tribe sat stationary waiting for a break in the deaths. It was because of this disease that they were unprepared when a group of rogues raided their camp.

They had come just before dawn, in black cloaks and fur boots. They killed the watchmen and tore women and children from their huts and made them watch their loved ones perish to a scourge far worse than any illness. Lyra's mother had been gathering water to cool her daughter's brow when the rogues had snuck into the camp. She had witnessed the first be murdered by their disgraceful blades. Horrified, she hurried back to her family's hut and roused her children. Even though Lyra was far too sick to travel, her mother covered her in furs and sent her and her brother as far away from the camp as their legs could carry them. Even dying of illness in the bitter could was a more respectable than experiencing the atrocities that would be performed upon the tribe.

Lyra stumbled and fell quite often but her brother, Torin, carried her when she could no longer carry herself. When they were several miles away, they looked back upon what was once their home. All that was left were the burning huts of their family and ancestors. They stood there within the endless expanse of hills and glens, not truly understanding the loss they had sustained. All they knew was that they could never return to what they once knew and loved.

_4 years later_

It had been an endless winter at Hadrian's Wall for Arthur's knights. Illness had been common though, thankfully, none had fallen to it this year. Bedivere sat recovering in the darkness of the healing chambers, while his brothers continued their endless training. "One could never be too well prepared," their commander would always say as he spared right there beside them. Training was no longer a chore when Arthur became their commander, after several years of grueling service.

Bedivere stared out the small window above his cot wistfully, as his body was wracked with a fit of coughing. He was slowly healing after receiving a blow to the ribs which resulted in a high fever that had nearly killed him. Now, after three weeks of rest, he was finally beginning to recover. The others visited daily and regaled him of their many exploits, but all that Bedivere could think of was to escape his small prison and be out fighting again.

Bedivere knew that the knights had a mission coming up. Arthur had yet to announce anything official, but being in the healing ward Bedivere heard plenty of gossip. All the healer's assistants had spoken of for the past four days had been about a troupe of soldiers headed their way. If Bedivere knew anything, he knew that Arthur and his knights would be sent out to greet the new forces. The ill knight nearly kicked himself for being incapacitated. It was rare to be sent out in the winter because most rebels were just fighting to survive the harsh weather rather than causing trouble. It was luck indeed to be allowed outside the dreary gates of the fort during the winter months.

Only Tristan was lucky enough to be permitted to go scouting or hunting. However, that was more of a precautionary method that the Romans used. It was better to let the beast roam free than to have him turn on them, and possibly kill someone. Tristan was known by the Romans as a vicious and wild creature, but his fellow knights knew the gentler and almost shy scout for what he truly was. Everyone's fear was what protected Tristan from being hurt in more ways than one. The fact that Tristan was also the most lethal with just about any weapon also didn't help him win any popularity contests.

Bedivere chuckled to himself as he thought about how small the scout had been when he was enlisted, or enslaved might have been a better term for it. Tristan had been over fifteen, but he had been shorter and less threatening looking than even the ten year old Galahad. The guards escorting them to the Wall had made the mistake of picking on the boy one night. That was the first of many times they had witnessed Tristan give himself over to his deep blood lust, and he nearly killed three guards before he was subdued.

They always said not to corner a wild animal because it would fight blindly to the death before being caged. Tristan had been no different from a cornered wolf then, and he had changed little in that respect over the years. However, now Tristan was one of the tallest knights as well the most rugged looking. It only added to the fear and gossip of the entire fort.

As Bedivere was contemplating this, the door to the healing rooms opened silently. Before the ill knight knew it, he felt a presence beside him. Bedivere nearly fell out of bed as the subject of his thoughts materialized beside him. "Tristan," he gasped in shock. "Do you wish to finish the job for those blue monsters? Gods, you're more silent than the grave," a flustered Bedivere admonished. The scout only smirked as he sat beside his friend's cot. "What brings you to my humble corner of the fort, brother," Bedivere asked as he finally regained his composure.

"I'm heading out within the hour," Tristan spoke in a low growl that still made the older knight smile. Tristan was always considered silent, but he had never truly mastered the Romans' language even after nearly seven years of service. Tristan could speak Sarmatian, several rebel tongues, and the language of the Celts to the east, but he could barely form a coherent sentence in Latin. He had found that it was best not to say anything and let them wonder than to say something he would regret. Even now, Tristan still kept tight lipped.

"Only you? Or is Arthur going to follow," Bedivere asked interestedly.

"They shall follow when they are ready. There is little rush, we are not at war at the moment," Tristan replied with a sigh, his dark eyes conveying his discontent toward the mission.

"What ails you, brother? Be glad that you are not confined to an uncomfortable cot. What could possibly be so terrible," the older knight asked as he studied the scout closely.

"I just have a bad feeling about these soldiers," Tristan replied as he weaved his fingers through his unruly hair, effectively pulling it out of his face, for the moment.

"Have you spoken to Arthur about it, or is it just a dislike to the idea of more Romans milling about the fort," Bedivere pressed as he noticed the shadows under the scout's eyes. Arthur had obviously been letting Tristan come and go as he pleased. To most, this would seem a luxury, but Tristan took it as a duty to scout as much as possible for the safety of his brothers. Now, Tristan was obviously exhausted and in need of rest.

"It is nothing, I'm sure," Tristan said as he gazed out the window. "It is just that when I hear the Romans talking on guard or in the tavern, they always speak of these soldiers as a band of warriors, or hunters. I do not know what their purpose is, but I do not have a good feeling about bringing them into the fort, even if they are under contract to Rome. Assassins, no matter what they prefer to be called, never bring good fortune," Tristan finished as he leaned back in his seat.

"Why haven't you spoken to Arthur? This sounds serious to me," Bedivere asked as he watched Dagonet enter the room quietly. The large knight had come to change his bandages as usual, but was surprised to see Tristan taking the time to visit. The others visited daily, but Tristan was rarely if ever seen visiting the healing rooms, even when he should be staying in them himself.

"What can he do? Tell them that they cannot stay here. That would be foolish. I just came because I knew you would listen to me without making a scene," Tristan admitted solemnly.

"Why do you both look as though someone walked over your grave," they heard Dagonet ask as he sat on the edge of Bedivere's cot. "Lift your tunic," he said as he went to retrieve bandages.

"Tristan was just telling me that he is to leave on a mission shortly," Bedivere answered as he lifted his shirt to reveal the bandages that still swathed his wound.

"Ah, yes. You are going to find our mysterious guests," Dagonet said as he brought a salve with him reclaiming his place on the cot.

"I should be going," Tristan said regretfully as he noticed the sun dipping toward the horizon in many shades of red and orange. "I shall see you when I return, Bedivere," Tristan said before turning to Dag. "Make sure that Arthur follows the eastern most path when you decide to follow me. It is the most direct route, and the least treacherous. I will see you shortly," the scout said in clipped speech with a nod, before disappearing from the healing quarters.

"He needs rest," Dag sighed as he watched the scout leave. The large knight may have looked menacing, but he was the gentlest of the knights. He took it upon himself, as eldest, to watch over the rest when they were too stubborn to do so themselves.

"I noticed that he looked a bit ragged when he entered. Hasn't been taking care of himself, has he," Bedivere replied knowingly. Bedivere and Tristan were not the closest of friends, but the injured knight was closer to the scout than most of them. They had found friendship only after they had watched Kay slain by an ambush of Woads. The death of the jovial knight had destroyed Bedivere, who refused to be consoled by any of the others. Tristan was the only one who didn't try to bestow his sympathies upon the grieving knight, and was sought out because of it. Bedivere found that it was easier to speak to one who would neither coddle nor condemn him. From then on, it seemed that through an unspoken pact they would share their wants and fears with each other when they could not tell any others.

Dagonet just shook his head as he wrapped Bedivere's ribs with fresh bandages. "If he were anyone else, I would tie him to a cot and force him to rest. But Tristan is different. It would probably do more harm than good to cage him up," Dagonet said as he thought about the scout.

"So long as he knows his limits, I guess that there is little we can do to stop him," Bedivere sighed as he relaxed onto his cot.

"I suppose so," Dagonet agreed before rising. "We leave at sunrise. Should be back within the week. By the time we return, I hope to see you walking around again. Your wound is finally healing nicely," Dag said before slipping from the room as well. Bedivere just sighed as he further relaxed on the rough cot. He wished that his ribs had healed nicely nearly a month ago, but that just wasn't Bedivere's luck.

XxXxX

I hope you enjoyed this so far, and I promise that the next chapter will have more action. Please tell me what you thought of it because your input is what keeps me writing. Or if you hated it, feel free to tell me, and after I have a good cry I'll try to improve it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: same disclaimer as before, I don't own anything.**

Chapter 2

AN: The name Caoimhe is pronounced as Keeva.

The cloaked figure stood leaning heavily upon her twin sabers, as she watched the cavalry pass at a snail's pace. The horses' heavy plodding was testament to the harsh journey the soldiers had endured thus far. Lyra knew that she would have to travel swiftly but with great care if they were to pass the warriors without detection.

It had been a long and tiring journey for Lyra. Her frail body warned her that it would bear little more of this torture before giving in. Lyra's mind had other ideas, however. The cloak that she wore covered her thick clothes well. Its muddy green color aided her to blend into the dense forests of Britain just as it had done in her native Ireland. Lyra constantly found herself retying the veils she wore to cover the ginger curls that rolled down her back if not contained. She then replaced the hood of the cloak to further distort her features.

Though Lyra knew that her sickly nature had prevented many men from courting her in her native land, she was not so naïve as to believe that in a foreign place she would still be safe from unwanted attention. Her hair was a testament to her heritage, and Lyra was not about to compromise her mission because she did not like to be confined by so many layers of unnecessary cloth. She had to be careful, especially with such a threat so close.

Just as she was turning to return to her charge, she caught a glimpse of silver among the thick foliage of the forest. Lyra's sharp eyes darted across the path into the distant trees. Immediately, she recognized the strong flank of a grey war horse. Was it one of the warriors doing a sweep of the area? Was it another group she hadn't foreseen? Whatever the reason for the horse's presence, Lyra took it as a warning to get moving again.

As she re-sheathed her swords, Lyra broke out into a sprint toward her makeshift camp. Her weary body protested the sudden exertion, but Lyra only had one thing on her mind. If they had seen her, her entire mission was in danger.

Tristan had been riding for nearly two days before he saw any sign of the warriors that he was sent to find. It was not an unpleasant journey, but lack of rest and constant watchfulness were wearing the scout down. Tristan knew his limits very well, he pushed them enough to know they existed, but he knew that even though his body cried out for rest he could not just lay down now. He had a mission to complete and the faster he did, the sooner he could find his much needed rest.

As Tristan looked down the slight decline to the path before him, he watched as the weary looking soldiers plodded through the thick snow. The winter was a harsh one, and it seemed to be slowing their already meager progress. Tristan couldn't help but smirk at the way a bit of cold could bring down the soldiers of the "Great Empire." As Tristan turned his stallion to report to Arthur who was just hours behind, he did a sweep of the surrounding area. That was when he noticed the figure across the shallow ravine, watching the soldiers.

The man did not look to be Woad; he wore far too much clothing for that even in the dead of winter. He did not look to be Saxon; his build was slighter than any Saxon that Tristan could imagine. Perhaps, he was the group's scout, but why would he watch them and not go to them? Tristan was even further confused when the figure suddenly sheathed two wicked blades, and took off at a sprint into the forest. What confused him most was the fact that he swore he saw the bottom of a skirt when the figure's cloak billowed behind him.

Tristan shook his head, knowing that he was not in any shape to follow the man into a possible ambush. Instead, Tristan spun his horse and kicked it into a full gallop toward his comrades. The sooner they met up with the mysterious warriors, the sooner he could return to the fort and rest.

"Pack your things," Lyra demanded as she rushed into the tiny clearing. Her elder brother looked up from where he sat holding a small child in his lap.

"Lyra, what is wrong? You said that we would have this evening to rest," Torin asked a bit irritated at his sister's sudden demand.

"We are in danger," she stated firmly as she stamped out the meager fire.

"We are always in danger," Torin spoke with reason. "What is so terrible that we must leave immediately? The children have not rested in days, and the winter is beginning to cost them," he said as he stood, still holding the small girl in his arms.

"Do you not think I am just as exhausted as them," Lyra asked as she gestured to the camp of young girls. "Do you think I would ask them to travel now, if it were not of the greatest importance? I cannot protect you all if we are attacked. I would be lucky to be able to defend myself at this point. We must flee or we shall bear the consequences of capture," Lyra exclaimed as she continued to disassemble the small camp.

Torin placed the young girl into the open arms of another girl who was several years older than the first. "Lyra," he sighed as he approached her. "I know you are doing this for our protection, but is it not better to hide and risk capture than to run and face certain death. If we do not rest, not only will the girls not survive this journey, but neither will you," he whispered as he pulled her into a strong embrace.

"Torin, my life means nothing if we do not complete this mission. I shall die either way, but I do not fear for myself. I have faced certain death many times, and I still breathe. I shall take my chances yet again because I have seen what Rome does to those they capture, and I would rather we all die than face that torture," Lyra nearly sobbed into her brother's chest. Torin stood there holding his little sister for several moments knowing that she was, as usual, correct. It pained him to see her so weak after the months that she had flourished. He knew that everyday with her was precious because each was very cruelly numbered. Neither of them was under the illusion that Lyra would live past her twenty-fifth year, but Torin hoped that he would not lose her before her twentieth.

"We shall go, but we shall move slowly. I do not wish to risk losing you before we arrive. I cannot protect them on my own," Torin agreed as he raised her chin to look into her steely blue eyes. They had seen each other at their worst but somehow they had managed to pull each other back from the edge more times than either cared to remember. They trusted each other with more than their own lives; they trusted one another to survive so that they would not be alone.

Immediately upon hearing the order to leave, many of the older girls began to prepare the younger ones for another trek. Lenora, or Leni as she was called by Lyra, was the eldest of the girls at age sixteen. She was more of a sister to Lyra than a charge. She was the one to herd the young ones as they began to move further into the unwelcoming forest. Lyra always took the lead, and Torin always brought up the rear. It was Lenora's job to watch what took place in between. The young blonde had been of noble blood before this journey, but she was treated no differently than any other now. Lyra knew of her high birth, but she was not about to pamper the girl only to lead them all to a cruel demise. Everyone had to work together, and work they did.

After nearly three hours of heavy plodding, they reached a small stream. "Rest here," Lyra stated as she took in their surroundings. "I shall scout tonight, in order to ensure our safety. No one is to leave the camp, do you understand," she asked Torin who stood helping Lenora care for some of the younger girls.

"You should rest, Lyra. We cannot continue if you make yourself ill," Torin argued as he watched his sister sway on her feet. Even covered in as many layers as she was, Torin could tell that her body quivered from more than exhaustion.

"I have been ill since I was born, Torin. Do not think it shall hold me back now," Lyra spoke through chattering teeth. "I promise I shall rest when I find a good place to watch over you from," Lyra assured him as she began to move away from the camp.

"Sister… they need you more than I. Remember that when you do something heroic," Torin said with a sigh, knowing his sister would work herself to death without so much as a complaint.

"I am no hero, brother," she said as she stopped before a small dark haired girl. "Keavy, behave while I'm gone. I don't want to hear that you followed me again," Lyra whispered in the girl's ear as she held her tightly. Caoimhe, or Keavy, was barely nine summers old, but she was full of mischief. The young girl had no parents to speak of and was not actually supposed to be a part of the group. However, Lyra had a love for the small orphan which no one understood. When Lyra had been given the mission, she had refused to do it if Caoimhe was not allowed to accompany her. So the young girl had been added to the mission.

The young brunette was so full of life, which Lyra had never felt in her own existence. She followed Lyra wherever she went, and was never deterred by the seeming danger of a situation. If anyone among their group was a hero, it was Caoimhe. She had lived through a great deal in her nine years, and she still new how to smile after it all. Smiling was something that Lyra had not done in many years, so the older girl chose to live through Keavy's enjoyment of life.

"You won't be gone long, will you," Keavy asked as she pulled at Lyra's hoods. The young girl looked up to Lyra but was not so naïve as to believe Lyra always told her the truth. No, Lyra was a survivor, and often that meant lying to those she loved in order to survive.

"I'll be back before you know it," Lyra said with a small smile as she placed a light kiss on Caoimhe's hair. Lyra hated to leave her charge behind, but she refused to risk the girl's life for selfish reasons. It was bad enough that she had dragged the girl with her on this mission. "I must go now. Promise you'll behave," Lyra said finally.

Caoimhe just nodded as she was placed back on her feet. Lyra smiled down at the child before turning and disappearing into the forest as quickly as she had appeared. Lyra knew that they were far from safe beside the only source of water for miles around. However, she also knew that she would lose some of her charges if she were to continue any further tonight. Lyra was not a master of virtue; she didn't actually know what the word meant, but she would employ patience on this night.

XxXxX

Hope you liked this, tell me what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from King Arthur, but everything else is mine.**

Chapter 3

Arthur nearly fell out of the saddle when Tristan mysteriously appeared in the middle of the path, just ahead of them. He was only topped by Galahad who actually did slip in the saddle which startled his horse. The others laughed at the youngest knight's edginess. "What news do you bring us, Tristan," Arthur called as they approached their tired brother.

"The warriors are just north of us, only about an hour or two," Tristan informed his commander respectfully. Arthur nodded gratefully and motioned for Tristan to fall into line. Tristan did so and took his place at the rear of the column. It would be only a short while before meeting the strangers, but Tristan hoped it would be enough time to rest and regain some of his strength. However, he knew that rest would not come. This part of the forest was unsettled, and Tristan could feel the danger from where he sat atop his grey charger.

It was almost as though the woods were hiding something that could prove very dangerous. Tristan just hoped that the forest would protect him as it had so many times before. It wasn't Woads that Tristan feared now, but the unsettled nature of the silent wood.

The knights rode without incidence to a bend in the path, just before where the soldiers marched. They were a bedraggled assortment of men that looked more dead than alive. Each one bore the scars of battle upon their rugged faces and bodies. They wear fierce, but their posture made them look all the more human.

Arthur called Tristan ahead once again, in order to scout while he spoke with the warriors. Tristan simply nodded as he maneuvered around the group. The Roman warriors watched him warily as he passed them, only to disappear into the surrounding foliage. Tristan's only hope was that he would see the unsettling threat before it saw him. It was already well on its way to being night. The sun had finished its descent just minutes earlier, and the forest was even eerier as twilight set in.

Tristan could feel a presence, could feel eyes watching him again, but he couldn't place it. He hoped it was only his frayed nerves.

It was that damn horse again, Lyra cursed to herself as she watched mount and rider slip through the trees. She was far enough away from the camp, not to fear him finding her brother and the children, but she knew she would have to dissuade him from going any further. Lyra crouched on the branch that carried her entire weight as she continued to follow the imposing figure with her tired eyes.

It was definitely a man which rode atop the fine stallion she had noticed earlier. She had no doubt of his skill, simply based upon the way he rode. His back was straight yet relaxed, and his weapons were all well within reach. The sturdy bow attached to his horse's flank indicated to her that he was most likely a scout. Very few Romans carried bows when swords or spears were much more "fun." This man looked to be something other than Roman, but Lyra's lack of worldly knowledge prevented her from being able to discern his origin.

As his horse passed beneath where Lyra perched herself, she studied the man more closely. He wore no hood, but his cloak covered most of his form only revealing his breast plate for scrutiny. She could discern several hidden weapons tucked into his armor, and made note that he would be more dangerous than even the assassins that hunted her. His hair was long and pulled into several braids which proved to make him look more wild than civilized.

Lyra's breath hitched as he looked up, seemingly right at her. However, he simply raised his left wrist and whistled. Before Lyra understood what he was doing, a large hawk darted through the trees to rest itself on his gloved hand. Lyra once again took note of the dark tattoos adorning his high cheekbones. What kind of creature was this that she watched so carefully? If he was not Roman, which she was certain he was not, was he still a great threat? Lyra did not have the luxury to believe him to be anything but a threat, so she moved quickly from her perch in order to follow the stranger.

Tristan had seen him in the trees. The man was very good at camouflaging himself, but Tristan had years of practice at seeing what was invisible. The scout could have shot him out of the tree then, but he was fascinated by the man's passive watchfulness. Tristan could tell that the stranger was dangerous simply by the presence of the two strong blades attached to his back, but Tristan did not yet feel threatened by the man. Perhaps it was curiosity, but Tristan wanted to know more about this man before he killed him.

Lyra followed closely as the scout wandered through the dense woodland. She could now feel the difference in his alertness. He knew she was there, and that put them all in danger. Lyra quickly pulled herself up into the nearest tree, and quickly fled the area. There was no use in getting caught now when they were so close to their destination.

Tristan couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed when he no longer sensed the presence of another. His hawk instantly became more relaxed on his arm, and Tristan knew that it was only the two of them that wandered the forest now. He should have felt worried that the warrior would alert or bring others, but there was a solitude to the man that Tristan often felt himself.

Arthur soon found himself standing before a fierce looking Roman. Many scars marred the olive skin of his face and arms. His rich brown hair was covered in sweat and mud, and he looked tired beyond reason. He had a pleasant enough smile, and Arthur decided that perhaps he was not as heartless as the rumors said.

Reaching out a strong arm the strange warrior spoke, "Artorius, it is a pleasure to finally meet the man who has put fear in the hearts of the rebels." Arthur was shocked by the admiration and camaraderie that shown brightly in the soldier's eyes. It was an uncommon if not unheard of thing for a Roman commander to approve of Arthur's command. When Arthur did not return the greeting, the other man stepped forward. "Forgive me. I have been among that which is wild for so long that I have forgotten my manners. I am Demetrius, and these are my men," he said by way of introduction flashing his bright smile.

"Welcome, Demetrius. We have come to escort you back to the fort," Arthur finally greeted as he took the other man's forearm in a strong embrace.

"Sir, if you are not in a great hurry, our horses would appreciate it if we were permitted to walk part of the way," Demetrius asked as he glanced form knight to knight, giving each a once over.

Arthur was further shocked by not only the man's bowing to a man of equal if not lower rank, but by his respect for the horses that carried his men. When Arthur found his voice, he quickly answered, "We are in no hurry. The winter months give us plenty of free time. You may walk if it pleases you to do so," Arthur spoke quickly. "My scout is keeping a close eye to our surroundings, so you need not fear an ambush," Arthur said as he returned the man's smile.

"Very well then, I believe we should continue moving before my men are no longer able to," Demetrius returned as he moved to his own horse, lifting several weapons from its back. "Hurry brothers, dismount. We still have much ground to cover before we can rest." Demetrius' men were dismounted even before he finished his speech. Each one patted or stroked his own horse's flank, as he began to guide the beast to follow Arthur's men.

As they commenced their slow progress toward the fort, Lancelot reclaimed his place beside Arthur. "That man cannot possibly be Roman," Lancelot said as he glanced back at the group of men guiding their mounts without complaint. The knights had taken positions around them so that if they were attacked, the strange men would have a chance to mount or prepare before battle seized them.

"Not all Romans are pigs, Lancelot. I would have hoped you had learned that by now," Arthur said in a whisper, since Demetrius and his second walked only feet behind them. However, both soldiers had heard the exchange clearly.

"I cannot blame your men for despising Rome," Demetrius' second spoke casually.

Both Arthur and Lancelot spun in their seats to stare at the pair behind them. The two Romans released their horses' reins and walked up between the mounted pair. The lone horses followed easily without guidance, showing their superb training. "Do not look so shocked. We have been in the silent forest for longer than I care to recall. I can hear what your youngest knight at the back of the column is telling the blonde one, that is if you care to hear it," Demetrius said with a smirk.

"Forgive Lancelot. His tongue is sharper than his brain," Arthur replied, praying that Demetrius would not insist on punishing his second.

"There is nothing to forgive. His statement was correct," Demetrius dismissed the plea. "I am not Roman, or at least not entirely Roman," he explained with an easy smile. "My mother was of Greece. My father used her for his fun while stationed there. I was raised with my mother in Greece, but when she died I was sent to Rome to find my father or make something of myself. So here I am, a soldier, no better than scum that bred me," Demetrius spat with disgust. "My men are of mix origins, but you will find they speak no love for Rome. We serve because we must, not because we take pleasure in defending or representing such an empire."

"See Arthur, why do you always question my judgment," Lancelot asked with a smile.

"You were not entirely right, my friend," Demetrius addressed Lancelot. "I am still half Roman, even if I try to forget it," he smiled broadly as he turned to his second. "Do you do your own introductions or are you choosing to be rude today," he asked the younger man beside him.

"Pantheras, my mother was cruel in naming me," the second said with a calm smirk as he addressed the two knights. Pantheras was quite a bit shorter than his leader, but no less lethal in his appearance. Pantheras' hair was shorn very close to his head, only enhancing his well angled features. He probably could have given Lancelot a run for his money with the tavern wenches if he wished to. However, Pantheras did not radiate the cockiness that Lancelot was known for. He seemed much calmer, but Arthur could tell that he had a sharp wit about him.

"I am Arthur and this is my second, Lancelot," Arthur said with a nod.

"As my commander said before, it is good to finally meet you all," Pantheras said as he reached up his arm to grasp Arthur's.

"It is good to finally meet soldiers who know how to smile," Lancelot joked as he too grasped Pantheras' arm. He received a short laugh from the pair before Demetrius spoke to Arthur.

"I realize you have probably heard many rumors about my men. I would like to put them to rest once we make camp, if you would listen," he spoke sincerely, as he continued to march at a strong pace to keep up with the stallions.

"You do not need to explain yourself, you are a commander just as I am," Arthur reassured him, but Demetrius would have none of it.

"I wish to tell you of who you deal with before another has the chance to darken my already tarnished image," Demetrius said gravely. Arthur nodded and informed the commander that they would find a place to camp just after dusk. Demetrius was grateful for the kindness bestowed upon his ragged warriors, and Arthur was grateful that these men seemed just as human as his own, unlike most of the Roman legions.

Tristan dismounted along a narrow stream. His horse needed water, and he was in need of rest. He had seen neither hide nor hair of the mysterious man since the tree, and he hoped that it was safe enough to relax for a couple minutes before mounting up again. Arthur would be making camp soon, so Tristan did not have to worry about being left behind. Not that that would matter anyway, he would probably still find the fort before them if he were left behind.

Now Tristan sat at the edge of the near frozen stream. The wet snow was soaking into his cloak, but he was too tired to care. He hadn't let himself rest for any significant period of time in over a fortnight. He was running off of pure instinct at this point, and he knew that even that was beginning to dull with exhaustion.

Lyra watched the scout sit in the snow, letting his horse drink from the stream. His shoulders were slumped in exhaustion, and Lyra realized that he was not an immediate threat. If he had been one of the hunters, he would have known that her group would be near by. This man, however, either did not care or did not know. Either way, she still refused to put her charges in danger. She would need to be rid of him.

Tristan hadn't realized that he had drifted off to a light slumber until he was startled by rustling from across the stream. On the opposite side of the water stood the cloaked stranger. Tristan would have kicked himself had he not been so caught off guard. All he had on him was his sword, which would do little good at such a distance. The figure was covered mostly in shadow, but from what Tristan could see he was holding a bow at his side.

"Go back to your commander. There is nothing for you here," the whisper was carried to his ears only by the grace of the strong wind. "I wish you no harm, if you do not come to hunt me," it continued. The words were thickly accented, but Tristan understood them which only confused him further. The figure had not moved and inch since he woke but its voice seemed to materialize on the wind.

"Why should I be hunting you," Tristan found himself asking before he could stop himself.

"Go back to your commander," was all that the voice said before disappearing completely into the shadows in the blink of an eye. Tristan shook his head, believing that he was beginning to see things in his state of exhaustion. However, before Tristan could talk himself out of this dream, an arrow came flying straight toward him. The razor sharp edge of the arrowhead skimmed across the scout's tattooed cheek before embedding itself in a tree behind him. The man could have easily killed the scout but had obviously not wanted him dead.

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Thank you to those of you who have read and reviewed this story. I hope you continue to enjoy it, and please let me know what you think.


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